Yes, I'm currently enthralled (in the the good sense) with this new-found love of memoir.
I recall in my early days of The Way Corps, I desired to 'master' (a word which I rarely and really don't like to use) the art of communication. Words fascinated me. I enjoyed word studies, which is when a person studies one word and its various usages in "The Bible." In junior high school, I loved (yes loved) diagramming sentences. As a hobby, I enjoyed perusing etymologies of words and phrases.
Here I am, decades later, writing and writing and writing and writing. It's a bit of an obsession, huh? *chuckle*
This new-found journey of memoir is, for me, like a treasure chest of precious gems - some that sparkle, others that are less noticeable.
Following are links, some authored by me and some by others, regarding memoir; regarding magic strokes upon the page which take form into landscapes of discovery, re-discovery, and beyond. I'll add to it as I come across and recall some things I've read about writing memoir....
WRITTEN WORD 1 -- First Person by Fred Poole
~Writers are constantly being told to write what they know, but they are often steered away from that they know best, the writer’s own self.
WRITTEN WORD 39 - Writing of a Sort by Fred Poole
~...But something was lacking. At end of what I wrote I was precisely where I had been when I started. There had not been discovery, just a reiteration of matters already known.
WRITTEN WORD 59 - Summation - Play within a Play by Fred Poole
~...Tom, who became my spiritual director, was the person who gave as crucial spiritual advice, "Fuck the begrudgers," and Tom also wrote and spoke of stories as sacred, a person's actual stories, reflections upon stories, stories played off against other stories, stories changing – and guided me as I bluffed the academic affairs people to get credit for writing stories where they normally would require dry research papers.~
Any of the other works in Fred Poole's "WRITTEN WORD" series.
Ice Breaker by Marta Szabo
~Every memoir – every good one – is a self-portrait, and the more blatant and honest it is the better. [...] There are other memoirs that claim to be blatant and honest just because they spatter blood and guts all over the page. I'm not talking about that....
Memoir, Art and What It's Good For by Marta Szabo
~....Writing memoir – discovering and saying distinctly your version of the facts – not through the disguise of metaphor, but in unmistakable scenes and concrete details -- makes you strong. To choose the stories that are important, not have someone tell you what they are. To write without obligation to family, schoolteachers, grammarians, or bestseller lists.
Words on Memoir by Susanna Sonnenberg
~ Thus, the two versions are both true and untrue at the same time. I guess I felt that I needed to make absolutely clear how deeply I revered the form of memoir, what a fascinating, personal expression it is.
Welcome to Memoir as Healing by Linda Joy Myers
~ Painstakingly writing about the darkest times in my life, putting those stories down on paper—bringing them into the light—liberated me from the emotional burdens of a lifetime.
Journey through Memoir: Introduction ...part I of my thoughts on memoir...
~ Both subjective and objective realities are substantial components of what shapes a person's life. Both have value and are 'true' in the sense of how an individual responds. Both leave an imprint, like a deer track through the woods.
Ink Not Dried ....part II of my thoughts on memoir...
~ An entire universe within itself, the depths of which are hidden until one decides to dive. That is memoir, at least a snippet of it..
Do You Type with Eyes Closed? ...part III of my thoughts on memoir...
~ Let the fragments surface. Allow the currents to rise. Let the memories and stories live - to be embraced, not embalmed.
It's Relative ....me again...
~ ...my family of origin isn't separate from my involvement with my various relationships through the years. But yet, in a sense, I have viewed my family as separate and rather nebulous really.
~*~~*~*~*~*~*~
October 31, 2009
October 30, 2009
Do You Type with Eyes Closed?
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"I felt a sense of outrage that people started to look for newspaper reporting when they picked up memoir...." ~Susana Sonnenberg
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Perhaps I should retitle these pieces I dribble regarding the subject of memoir as sequels with stately Roman numerals. This is the IIIrd piece coming off my keyboard about thoughts on memoir.
I find that the first time I put something to paper (or screen), it may be fragmented, details askew, dates a bit off. On the virgin voyage, I don't look up dates, etc. I might later, look up certain details. I have corrected some details in some pieces. If ever these strokes of pen get put into bound 'permanent' ink on page, I will check details; I think I will, won't I?
If a subject I am approaching is complex, it seems to come out more fragmented. Why is that?
I started writing this snippet with something else in mind, something about puzzles and memoir that I've been thinking about for a few days. Yet, it would be puzzles that have no edges or frames. But alas, this piece took a different shape. Perhaps it is more like clay than puzzles, or a mixture of both.
Let the fragments surface. Allow the currents to rise. Let the memories and stories live - to be embraced, not embalmed.
I regularly type with my eyes closed, one reason I like to compose at a keyboard. I wonder if others do the same?
*************************************
Click here for more thoughts on memoir: I: "Journey through Memoir - Introduction" & II: "Ink Not Dry"
Click here for memoir index.
***********************************
"I felt a sense of outrage that people started to look for newspaper reporting when they picked up memoir...." ~Susana Sonnenberg
*****************************
Perhaps I should retitle these pieces I dribble regarding the subject of memoir as sequels with stately Roman numerals. This is the IIIrd piece coming off my keyboard about thoughts on memoir.
I find that the first time I put something to paper (or screen), it may be fragmented, details askew, dates a bit off. On the virgin voyage, I don't look up dates, etc. I might later, look up certain details. I have corrected some details in some pieces. If ever these strokes of pen get put into bound 'permanent' ink on page, I will check details; I think I will, won't I?
If a subject I am approaching is complex, it seems to come out more fragmented. Why is that?
- Webs. Webs of relationships, past, incidents that overlap and entertwine. It's like a maze. One doesnt't necessarily want to deconstruct it, but rather follow it to discover that corridor or that strand.
- Oceans. Thoughts and memories whirl in my mind, heart, body. Sometimes they are an undercurrent; sometimes they erupt like a typhoon, sometimes they rock me gently; sometimes they are a wild, adventurous surf. Each is true, even if it involves the same incident, the same context.
- Doubt. I doubt my thoughts, my memories, my feelings. I am becoming more confident in embracing what it is - what I think, I feel, I recall. I am seeing that even if that changes, for the moment in which a piece of memoir is written, in that moment it is true. I sometimes even doubt if experiences happened; yet I know they did.
- Protection. I have this tendency to protect others, sometimes even at the expense of myself. Yes, there are times I want to protect myself; but more so it seems I want to protect others. I like Fred Poole's phrase, "I tend to oppose protecting the guilty." I too often think of myself as the guilty party; and sometimes I am.
- Accuracy. A bane. I'm all for accuracy, but it can go way too far. It can stifle the creative process, the flow. Fear of not seeing another person's point of view, fear that if my recollections are not completely precise that I am lying. God, does that cut me like a knife.
I started writing this snippet with something else in mind, something about puzzles and memoir that I've been thinking about for a few days. Yet, it would be puzzles that have no edges or frames. But alas, this piece took a different shape. Perhaps it is more like clay than puzzles, or a mixture of both.
Let the fragments surface. Allow the currents to rise. Let the memories and stories live - to be embraced, not embalmed.
I regularly type with my eyes closed, one reason I like to compose at a keyboard. I wonder if others do the same?
*************************************
Click here for more thoughts on memoir: I: "Journey through Memoir - Introduction" & II: "Ink Not Dry"
Click here for memoir index.
***********************************
October 29, 2009
Peaks and Peek Skills - II
*********************************************************************
Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction .
*********************************************************************
non-subject: "past in the present"
{aww ~ 10/28/09}
**************************************
As I drove north on the interstate in August, 2009, I talked on the cell phone with Lora. She and I had recently connected on Facebook after 25 plus years, and now here we were on the phone talking about our 1978-'79 WOW Ambassador year; that year that we had been assigned to the same outreach city. That was a different WOW year than the one in 1980-'81 in Connecticut; the one when I had AWOLed and hitchhiked south; the one when after AWOLing I had taken the trip north to pick up my guitar.
Lora isn't with The Way anymore, but she apparently still holds to Way doctrines. She may have assumed the same about me. On our phone call, she spoke of how God had continued to impress upon her the vision of "Word over the world." She used that exact phrase, "Word over the world," just like in Way days.
Lora and I got disconnected when I began driving through the Virginia mountains. My cell phone dropped the call as I started to tell her about the abortion I experienced that WOW year, in 1978. I didn't get to tell her any of the story; probably better that way. Luke had fathered that life. Lora and I played phone tag after the dropped call, but didn't reconnect. Now it's two months later and I'm still "it" on the tag; my turn to call.
I even had my sense of smell in August, 2009; reminiscent of when I could still smell back in 1980. That sense was robbed from me in the fall of 1981 when I first got so sick; I lived in Cleveland, Ohio, then. Over the decades my sense of smell would return intermittently for short periods of time if I took enough steroids, or after my four different sinus surgeries, or when I underwent Enzyme Potentiated Desensitization treatments, or the time I had the online phone affair. But this past February my sense of smell had returned unexpectantly, spontaneously. This past year I had re-discovered parts of myself. I had allowed different parts of me to emerge, parts of me I embraced and even named. Something I never would have done in my Way believer days; I would have tried to eliminate those parts of me. I would have thought them devilish.
That Christmas back in 1980 when I was driving north to Connecticut, I stopped in at Luke's parent's home, in New York. I had met Luke's dad and mom in the late summer of 1979 when Luke and I drove to New York from Wisconsin. I really liked his dad. In 1979 Luke and I had taken a train into the city to visit his dad at work. Luke's dad owned an advertising agency; I think that's what he did. We all went out to eat at some restaurant; I recall it was fancy, at least for me, with dim lighting. I don't know if we were in Manhattan or somewhere else. The rest of the day Luke showed me different sights in the city. I don't recall much about the sightseeing, except that I liked the conductor's voice on the train when he bellowed, "Yonkers!" I think Luke took me to see the Statue of Liberty.
The New York trip of Christmastime, 1980, was different than the trip in August, 1979 ~
~ In 1979 I was a strong faithful believer having just completed my WOW year which was also my apprenticeship year for the Way Corps; Luke and I had served in the same WOW family part of that year. In 1979 I was going into my first in-residence Way Corps year.
~ In 1980, I had been unfaithful. I had AWOLed from the Way Corps and the WOW field, copped out on my commitments in a shameful way. In contrast, Luke was still active Way Corps in training simply on relocation in New York at Christmas break.
He and I must have talked on the phone or something to arrange for me to stop and spend the weekend at his folks that Christmas while he was there. It was a weekend filled with sex; we couldn't keep our hands off each other. When I had to leave to head north for Connecticut, Luke informed me that he and I were no longer lovers. I was confused; I was devastated. Hadn't we just spent the weekend enraptured with each other?
I learned decades later, in 2006, that I had confused and devastated Luke months prior to his devastating me that Christmas. I don't recall telling Luke it was over between us and not allowing him to kiss me, and then later wanting him again and having sex and introducing him still as my boyfriend. Though I don't recall, I don't doubt I behaved such. I was confused trying to keep God first, suppressing feelings that would boil over only for me to then cover them, to force their impossible cooling as they continued to simmer. So was Luke, trying to keep God first.
What of our 1980 weekend rendezvous? What healthy young man and young woman still ravaged with love would refuse sex when it freely seems to avail itself, when the hormone and heart urges swoon stronger than will and so-called logic?
The months following our rendezvous and final break-up I held on through a whirlwind of emotions as I plummeted into self-numbing behaviour, trying to drown my shame and worthless feelings through sex and alcohol, secretly acting out like I was trying to prove to myself how very despicable and unworthy I was. Or was I trying to prove to myself that I was free in Christ, that God loved me and would see me through regardless of my flesh? Or did I think the one thing I was good at was sex; that I could please someone that way? I wasn't in love with any of those I seduced into one-night stands, nor were they in love with me. Some of them even came to fellowship and one guy, Micheal, took the PFAL Class. I was still teaching hot-Bible at fellowship. It was a double life - hot Bible and hot sex.
Mixed emotions. Convoluted doctrines. God first. Others second. Myself third.
It still confuses me.
********************************************************
Click here to read Part I: Peaks and Peek Skills - I.
Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).
*******************************************************
Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction .
*********************************************************************
non-subject: "past in the present"
{aww ~ 10/28/09}
**************************************
As I drove north on the interstate in August, 2009, I talked on the cell phone with Lora. She and I had recently connected on Facebook after 25 plus years, and now here we were on the phone talking about our 1978-'79 WOW Ambassador year; that year that we had been assigned to the same outreach city. That was a different WOW year than the one in 1980-'81 in Connecticut; the one when I had AWOLed and hitchhiked south; the one when after AWOLing I had taken the trip north to pick up my guitar.
Lora isn't with The Way anymore, but she apparently still holds to Way doctrines. She may have assumed the same about me. On our phone call, she spoke of how God had continued to impress upon her the vision of "Word over the world." She used that exact phrase, "Word over the world," just like in Way days.
Lora and I got disconnected when I began driving through the Virginia mountains. My cell phone dropped the call as I started to tell her about the abortion I experienced that WOW year, in 1978. I didn't get to tell her any of the story; probably better that way. Luke had fathered that life. Lora and I played phone tag after the dropped call, but didn't reconnect. Now it's two months later and I'm still "it" on the tag; my turn to call.
I even had my sense of smell in August, 2009; reminiscent of when I could still smell back in 1980. That sense was robbed from me in the fall of 1981 when I first got so sick; I lived in Cleveland, Ohio, then. Over the decades my sense of smell would return intermittently for short periods of time if I took enough steroids, or after my four different sinus surgeries, or when I underwent Enzyme Potentiated Desensitization treatments, or the time I had the online phone affair. But this past February my sense of smell had returned unexpectantly, spontaneously. This past year I had re-discovered parts of myself. I had allowed different parts of me to emerge, parts of me I embraced and even named. Something I never would have done in my Way believer days; I would have tried to eliminate those parts of me. I would have thought them devilish.
That Christmas back in 1980 when I was driving north to Connecticut, I stopped in at Luke's parent's home, in New York. I had met Luke's dad and mom in the late summer of 1979 when Luke and I drove to New York from Wisconsin. I really liked his dad. In 1979 Luke and I had taken a train into the city to visit his dad at work. Luke's dad owned an advertising agency; I think that's what he did. We all went out to eat at some restaurant; I recall it was fancy, at least for me, with dim lighting. I don't know if we were in Manhattan or somewhere else. The rest of the day Luke showed me different sights in the city. I don't recall much about the sightseeing, except that I liked the conductor's voice on the train when he bellowed, "Yonkers!" I think Luke took me to see the Statue of Liberty.
The New York trip of Christmastime, 1980, was different than the trip in August, 1979 ~
~ In 1979 I was a strong faithful believer having just completed my WOW year which was also my apprenticeship year for the Way Corps; Luke and I had served in the same WOW family part of that year. In 1979 I was going into my first in-residence Way Corps year.
~ In 1980, I had been unfaithful. I had AWOLed from the Way Corps and the WOW field, copped out on my commitments in a shameful way. In contrast, Luke was still active Way Corps in training simply on relocation in New York at Christmas break.
He and I must have talked on the phone or something to arrange for me to stop and spend the weekend at his folks that Christmas while he was there. It was a weekend filled with sex; we couldn't keep our hands off each other. When I had to leave to head north for Connecticut, Luke informed me that he and I were no longer lovers. I was confused; I was devastated. Hadn't we just spent the weekend enraptured with each other?
I learned decades later, in 2006, that I had confused and devastated Luke months prior to his devastating me that Christmas. I don't recall telling Luke it was over between us and not allowing him to kiss me, and then later wanting him again and having sex and introducing him still as my boyfriend. Though I don't recall, I don't doubt I behaved such. I was confused trying to keep God first, suppressing feelings that would boil over only for me to then cover them, to force their impossible cooling as they continued to simmer. So was Luke, trying to keep God first.
What of our 1980 weekend rendezvous? What healthy young man and young woman still ravaged with love would refuse sex when it freely seems to avail itself, when the hormone and heart urges swoon stronger than will and so-called logic?
The months following our rendezvous and final break-up I held on through a whirlwind of emotions as I plummeted into self-numbing behaviour, trying to drown my shame and worthless feelings through sex and alcohol, secretly acting out like I was trying to prove to myself how very despicable and unworthy I was. Or was I trying to prove to myself that I was free in Christ, that God loved me and would see me through regardless of my flesh? Or did I think the one thing I was good at was sex; that I could please someone that way? I wasn't in love with any of those I seduced into one-night stands, nor were they in love with me. Some of them even came to fellowship and one guy, Micheal, took the PFAL Class. I was still teaching hot-Bible at fellowship. It was a double life - hot Bible and hot sex.
Mixed emotions. Convoluted doctrines. God first. Others second. Myself third.
It still confuses me.
********************************************************
Click here to read Part I: Peaks and Peek Skills - I.
Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).
*******************************************************
Peaks and Peek Skills - I
The August, 2009, trip from North Carolina to New York was like a pilgrimage. My last trip up those roads was in 1980 when I was 21 years old.
In 1980, I'd made the trip at Christmastime. I was going to Connecticut from North Carolina by way of New York. In New York I was stopping to see Luke; he was at his parent's home on Christmas relocation from his in-residence Way Corps training. In Connecticut I was picking up my guitar that I had left with my Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador family. My other stuff had previously been shipped to North Carolina. Either I didn't want my guitar shipped or my WOW family had overlooked shipping it; I don't recall.
I was grateful they had shipped anything; I had AWOLED on them, broken my commitment, left them high and dry. What a sorry excuse I was for Way Corps, for the "It is Written" standard.
God how I wish I could recall more details about that 1980 fall day when I AWOLed from the WOW field in Connecticut. I recall it was light out, late afternoon. It was October; the fire maples were aglow with autumn richness.
I recall I had to get away, from what I am not sure; I felt a desperation, a panic. And I had to catch a ride before anyone that knew me saw me. Not many folks in Torrington knew me. But it was a small city; what if one of the believers saw me? I didn't take my backpack. If anyone I knew saw me thumbing with a backpack, they'd know I was going on a long haul. I didn't want anyone to know; I wanted to just disappear. I had to get a ride quickly.
This past year, in 2009, my 18-year old son pulled that backpack out of storage. It still had the 1980 bus station shipping label on it from Torrington, Connecticut, to Hickory, North Carolina. My WOW family had shipped it to me after I had AWOLed.
I recall I got a ride with a trucker; I think it was a long ride. It's difficult to recall specifics of my various hitchhiking trips.
A couple years ago, in 2007, I tallied my hitchhiking miles between the years of 1976 and 1983. They totaled at least 5000 miles as the crow flies. On most of those trips I had a hitching partner, but not the 1980 AWOL trip from Connecticut to North Carolina; I'd gone solo.
Now in 2009 I was driving north again, not in a 1970-something car but in a 1999 Ford Explorer. I wasn't going to pick up a guitar from Reverend Steve's home in Connecticut or to see Luke at his parents home in New York. On this 2009 trip, I was going to New Paltz and Woodstock and Bethel, New York. I was going to peek a bit more into myself, into my past. I was going to connect with others who share a similar passion of re-discovery; others who think outside the confines of my once held fundamentalist mindset.
Yes, this trip felt very much like a pilgrimage, back in time.
In 1980, I'd made the trip at Christmastime. I was going to Connecticut from North Carolina by way of New York. In New York I was stopping to see Luke; he was at his parent's home on Christmas relocation from his in-residence Way Corps training. In Connecticut I was picking up my guitar that I had left with my Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador family. My other stuff had previously been shipped to North Carolina. Either I didn't want my guitar shipped or my WOW family had overlooked shipping it; I don't recall.
I was grateful they had shipped anything; I had AWOLED on them, broken my commitment, left them high and dry. What a sorry excuse I was for Way Corps, for the "It is Written" standard.
God how I wish I could recall more details about that 1980 fall day when I AWOLed from the WOW field in Connecticut. I recall it was light out, late afternoon. It was October; the fire maples were aglow with autumn richness.
I recall I had to get away, from what I am not sure; I felt a desperation, a panic. And I had to catch a ride before anyone that knew me saw me. Not many folks in Torrington knew me. But it was a small city; what if one of the believers saw me? I didn't take my backpack. If anyone I knew saw me thumbing with a backpack, they'd know I was going on a long haul. I didn't want anyone to know; I wanted to just disappear. I had to get a ride quickly.
This past year, in 2009, my 18-year old son pulled that backpack out of storage. It still had the 1980 bus station shipping label on it from Torrington, Connecticut, to Hickory, North Carolina. My WOW family had shipped it to me after I had AWOLed.
I recall I got a ride with a trucker; I think it was a long ride. It's difficult to recall specifics of my various hitchhiking trips.
A couple years ago, in 2007, I tallied my hitchhiking miles between the years of 1976 and 1983. They totaled at least 5000 miles as the crow flies. On most of those trips I had a hitching partner, but not the 1980 AWOL trip from Connecticut to North Carolina; I'd gone solo.
Now in 2009 I was driving north again, not in a 1970-something car but in a 1999 Ford Explorer. I wasn't going to pick up a guitar from Reverend Steve's home in Connecticut or to see Luke at his parents home in New York. On this 2009 trip, I was going to New Paltz and Woodstock and Bethel, New York. I was going to peek a bit more into myself, into my past. I was going to connect with others who share a similar passion of re-discovery; others who think outside the confines of my once held fundamentalist mindset.
Yes, this trip felt very much like a pilgrimage, back in time.
October 26, 2009
inhale...energize....integrate...
***********************************************
I read three inspiring blog posts this morning. All are like breaths of fresh air. As one who has lived with serious breathing problems for decades, that statement isn't just figurative.
To breathe, inhale, savor aromas, feel the lungs expand without struggle is literally life-saving and life-giving...energizing.
To write, to express, to create (in the human sense), to explore, to dig, to dive, to discover, to re-discover can also be literally life-saving and life-giving...integrating.
Here are links to the three life-inspiring blog posts:
"When Is It done?" by Martz Szabo
"Welcome to Memoir as Healing" by Linda Joy Myers, Ph.D.
"Writing to Find Your Voice, Writing to Heal" by Linda Joy Myers, Ph.D.
This morning I also read the following affirmation from Dr. Margaret Jones book "Not of My Making." As I transcribe it below, my heart thrills and my eyes fill with tears - tears of freedom, tears of joy, tears of deep gratitude...
[..the excerpt from page 316 by Margaret Jones, Ph.D.] :
"The following morning, inspired by Mary Hammond's book, I wrote an affirmation in my journal.
Note: Click here to view the book Dr. Jones mentions in the excerpt: Mary Hammond's book: "The Church and Dechurched"
********************************
I read three inspiring blog posts this morning. All are like breaths of fresh air. As one who has lived with serious breathing problems for decades, that statement isn't just figurative.
To breathe, inhale, savor aromas, feel the lungs expand without struggle is literally life-saving and life-giving...energizing.
To write, to express, to create (in the human sense), to explore, to dig, to dive, to discover, to re-discover can also be literally life-saving and life-giving...integrating.
Here are links to the three life-inspiring blog posts:
"When Is It done?" by Martz Szabo
"Welcome to Memoir as Healing" by Linda Joy Myers, Ph.D.
"Writing to Find Your Voice, Writing to Heal" by Linda Joy Myers, Ph.D.
This morning I also read the following affirmation from Dr. Margaret Jones book "Not of My Making." As I transcribe it below, my heart thrills and my eyes fill with tears - tears of freedom, tears of joy, tears of deep gratitude...
[..the excerpt from page 316 by Margaret Jones, Ph.D.] :
"The following morning, inspired by Mary Hammond's book, I wrote an affirmation in my journal.
This morning with the sun shining through the front window, I am fierce with life. I am rediscovering, reinventing myself. I am taking the pain of the last three years and I am integrating it and using it to become more completely me. No more using my creative energies to try to please others. Instead I am going to use my life energy to write and study and understand what my life has been about. I am going to use it to help others, to stop the pain, the evil that infects us. I am going to integrate my knowledge of psychology, religion, my personal experiences of being bullied, my personal trauma, and use it to help others, to advance our knowledge of the human condition."
[end excerpt]
Note: Click here to view the book Dr. Jones mentions in the excerpt: Mary Hammond's book: "The Church and Dechurched"
~ to breathe, to write, to dance, to love, to embrace~
Yes!
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October 24, 2009
just some stream of consciousness...or fragments....
**********************************
Write Carol....just write.
I've had a bad headache now for two days. Nausea is a by-product. Yesterday my entire effin' face hurt along with my teeth.
My teeth. Probably the most expensive portion of my body. Hmmmm, nah. Now it is my titanium hip. But who the hell knows? I've (we've) spent so much money on my health. At least it has paid off. What would I have done had we not had the funds? I guess I would have died.
I recall when Dottie asked me once regarding my health, "What are your options?" I answered, "Believe or die." That must have been in 1994.
I recently perused some journal notes from '94. I quit journaling in '83, picked up my pen for a few months again in '94, ceased again, and then the ink spilled over in '98. It's been spilling over ever since. It was '98 that began so many life-changing occurrences. I say that, but there was a build up to that point in October, 1998.
October. October. October.
In my personal recovery work this past year or so, I told my counselor that I didn't consider myself as having survived trauma. I mean, everyone has their bumps, their valleys, their hills. Trauma. Trauma. Trauma. It's all on a continuum, like the other comparisons in life. It's not good to compare traumas. Yet, it is good to keep life's challenges in perspective. It seems that can only be done by comparisons.
I had denied my feelings for so long. It may not seem so, but I had. I buried so much effing pain, endeavoring to be strong, etc.
I remember times I'd sit in my home in Hickory, in that rocking chair in the den. The den where I had contimplated suicide more than once. I remember such deep, deep pain and grief. I'd be doubled over, wanting something to take it all away. I wailed more than once, "I feel like someone has died!" But no one had, at least on the physical level.
October. October. October.
This past year I listed traumas, or so-called traumas. I only got as far as 18 years old. I found myself denying that what happened in my life was traumatic. Hell, other folks have it much worse; I haven't lived through combat and war. My stomach turns.
October. October. October.
I recall one year when Way leadership told me that the reason I have trouble in October is because that is the Way's anniversary month, and the adversary stirred things up then. The person who told me that has a doctorate in psychology. That was a lot of help to me, great unsolicited advice. Ha!
Often times through the 80's and 90's, I'd have severe health trouble before big Ministry functions. The answer was always that the adversary was trying to keep me from the Word. I would always fight and most always get to the function. One time I rode lying down in the van from North Carolina to Ohio to some Advanced Class Special or something. I'd been told I had a herniated disc before I left for the trip. At the ACS, I went to see a believer chiropractor that told me I didn't have a herniated disc. It was a mess. I'm glad my neighbor had loaned me a walker.
One time, I think it was 1993, when I went to the Rock of Ages I was having asthma badly. I had rented a pop-up; me and my kids and another mom with her kids. We were put way out yonder in that field next to the Auditorium. I couldn't handle all the pollens of the tall grass. At 2 AM I walked what seemed forever, as I wheezed, to the ROA camping headquarters tent. Someone I knew was working...Judy and Bud. I asked if there was a spot we could have our camper moved to, that I was having a lot of health trouble down in the field. Judy responded, "You should contact and talk with you Twig leader." I said, "I am the Twig leader," and started crying. I felt so much shame for my lack of believing. I should have requested, prior to the ROA, a special spot on grounds for my pop up. But I was trying to believe God. I had brought my meds and nebulizer and stuff. But my lung had started hurting, the spot that would flare up where I'd had pneumonia a few times. And I was starting to have back pains, one of my warning signs that I need to do something before I'd end up at an Emergency Room. Hospital emergency rooms were a regular occurrence for me through the 80s and 90s. There were 3 ambulance trips; those were always fun.
Judy was compassionate and understanding. The next morning Bud came down and moved the pop up on grounds. He was very kind and helpful. I was so very thankful and appreciative. I didn't have to walk so far to activities that way. And being out of all that grass helped.
I don't know why I'm writing all this out. Sometimes I feel so very dirty; it's not fun. I don't like it. Well then, just stop. Ha!
Sometimes I'm embarrassed at my immature decisions through the years. So much was based on what I thought was truth. I still get confused. Sometimes I think too much.
Could I get a brain transplant?
I'll be glad when October passes...I think I will anyway.
I tell myself that it's o.k. to cry. This too will pass....and I breathe freely now. I have no back pain anymore; I have few pains. I may be the healthiest now, at 50 years old, than I've ever been. I do need to get back to my regular exercise; pre-hip and post-hip surgery waylaid me in that category. I've put on weight that I don't like.
Hey Carol...remember that mantra that JK gave you?
"God damn, am I good or what!"
That brings me a smile and a chuckle.
************************************
Write Carol....just write.
I've had a bad headache now for two days. Nausea is a by-product. Yesterday my entire effin' face hurt along with my teeth.
My teeth. Probably the most expensive portion of my body. Hmmmm, nah. Now it is my titanium hip. But who the hell knows? I've (we've) spent so much money on my health. At least it has paid off. What would I have done had we not had the funds? I guess I would have died.
I recall when Dottie asked me once regarding my health, "What are your options?" I answered, "Believe or die." That must have been in 1994.
I recently perused some journal notes from '94. I quit journaling in '83, picked up my pen for a few months again in '94, ceased again, and then the ink spilled over in '98. It's been spilling over ever since. It was '98 that began so many life-changing occurrences. I say that, but there was a build up to that point in October, 1998.
October. October. October.
In my personal recovery work this past year or so, I told my counselor that I didn't consider myself as having survived trauma. I mean, everyone has their bumps, their valleys, their hills. Trauma. Trauma. Trauma. It's all on a continuum, like the other comparisons in life. It's not good to compare traumas. Yet, it is good to keep life's challenges in perspective. It seems that can only be done by comparisons.
I had denied my feelings for so long. It may not seem so, but I had. I buried so much effing pain, endeavoring to be strong, etc.
I remember times I'd sit in my home in Hickory, in that rocking chair in the den. The den where I had contimplated suicide more than once. I remember such deep, deep pain and grief. I'd be doubled over, wanting something to take it all away. I wailed more than once, "I feel like someone has died!" But no one had, at least on the physical level.
October. October. October.
This past year I listed traumas, or so-called traumas. I only got as far as 18 years old. I found myself denying that what happened in my life was traumatic. Hell, other folks have it much worse; I haven't lived through combat and war. My stomach turns.
October. October. October.
I recall one year when Way leadership told me that the reason I have trouble in October is because that is the Way's anniversary month, and the adversary stirred things up then. The person who told me that has a doctorate in psychology. That was a lot of help to me, great unsolicited advice. Ha!
Often times through the 80's and 90's, I'd have severe health trouble before big Ministry functions. The answer was always that the adversary was trying to keep me from the Word. I would always fight and most always get to the function. One time I rode lying down in the van from North Carolina to Ohio to some Advanced Class Special or something. I'd been told I had a herniated disc before I left for the trip. At the ACS, I went to see a believer chiropractor that told me I didn't have a herniated disc. It was a mess. I'm glad my neighbor had loaned me a walker.
One time, I think it was 1993, when I went to the Rock of Ages I was having asthma badly. I had rented a pop-up; me and my kids and another mom with her kids. We were put way out yonder in that field next to the Auditorium. I couldn't handle all the pollens of the tall grass. At 2 AM I walked what seemed forever, as I wheezed, to the ROA camping headquarters tent. Someone I knew was working...Judy and Bud. I asked if there was a spot we could have our camper moved to, that I was having a lot of health trouble down in the field. Judy responded, "You should contact and talk with you Twig leader." I said, "I am the Twig leader," and started crying. I felt so much shame for my lack of believing. I should have requested, prior to the ROA, a special spot on grounds for my pop up. But I was trying to believe God. I had brought my meds and nebulizer and stuff. But my lung had started hurting, the spot that would flare up where I'd had pneumonia a few times. And I was starting to have back pains, one of my warning signs that I need to do something before I'd end up at an Emergency Room. Hospital emergency rooms were a regular occurrence for me through the 80s and 90s. There were 3 ambulance trips; those were always fun.
Judy was compassionate and understanding. The next morning Bud came down and moved the pop up on grounds. He was very kind and helpful. I was so very thankful and appreciative. I didn't have to walk so far to activities that way. And being out of all that grass helped.
I don't know why I'm writing all this out. Sometimes I feel so very dirty; it's not fun. I don't like it. Well then, just stop. Ha!
Sometimes I'm embarrassed at my immature decisions through the years. So much was based on what I thought was truth. I still get confused. Sometimes I think too much.
Could I get a brain transplant?
I'll be glad when October passes...I think I will anyway.
I tell myself that it's o.k. to cry. This too will pass....and I breathe freely now. I have no back pain anymore; I have few pains. I may be the healthiest now, at 50 years old, than I've ever been. I do need to get back to my regular exercise; pre-hip and post-hip surgery waylaid me in that category. I've put on weight that I don't like.
Hey Carol...remember that mantra that JK gave you?
"God damn, am I good or what!"
That brings me a smile and a chuckle.
************************************
October 22, 2009
Extirpation
This is part two of two.
Click here for part one: Up The Way Tree
*****
Then again, how would life have turned out had Luke and I stayed together? Not much reason to consider it now. But sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I long. Then I breathe deeply, thankful for the blessings of life.
****
Luke and I were assigned to the same Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador family that Ministry year of 1978-1979. The Ministry had two different months to start the year.
Practically, and in my mind, the Ministry year went from August to August, the Rock of Ages Festival being the kick-off and the culmination. Way Corps assignments would change then, if they were going to change. New WOW Ambassadors were commissioned and other WOWs who had completed there year were welcomed "home" to The Way Headquarters, congratulated, recognized, and pinned with a WOW Ambassador pin. It was always a high time; the welcoming home and the commissioning.
The official month to start the Ministry year was October. The first Sunday of October was always recognized as the celebration of the founding date of The Way and a theme for the new year was announced. The founding date was determined by Dr. Weirwille. The beginning of October, 1942, is when he started a radio show called the "Vesper Chimes Hour;" I think that was the name of it. I always thought it odd that October, 1942, was the date for the founding of The Way. It seemed to me that sometime in the 1960's, whenever Doctor established the name of The Way, would be a more appropriate date. Why didn't Doctor choose that date instead of the 1942 date? I thought it was probably because 1942 was around the time Doctor broke from the church and launched out on his own. Just he and God, with God to teach him. God had audibly told him that He'd teach Doctor the Word as it hadn't been known since the first century.
Like all the WOWs commissioned each year, Mary, Lenn, Luke, and I, were to find living quarters and jobs in our assigned city. We were part of a WOW Branch with around six other families. The families found their own housing. But being part of a Branch helped; it didn't feel so alone. I was 19 and the WOW Family Coordinator now in a big city to live for a year. Our family was assigned to the East side of the city near the state university. I liked that.
Luke and I were so in love and young, neither of us yet 20 years old. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. But the Trunk and WOW leadership were obeying God to keep Luke and I in the same WOW family, despite me letting them know why Luke and I shouldn't be in the same house.
I ended up pregnant not long after being on the WOW field. I recall going to the health department for a urine test; it was before the days of home pregnancy kits. I recall being emotional during the first months on the WOW field. How much was due to being pregnant and how much was due to low self-worth, I don't know. It was such a huge commitment in my mind; to help move the Word over the world, to be spiritually responsible for peoples' lives.
I went to another city to get the abortion. It was sometime in the fall, late September or October. I don't recall discussing the decision with anyone, but maybe I talked it over with some leadership; I don't know. It seems I drove alone to the other city, Madison; but maybe the leadership in Madison came and picked me up. I stayed with the leadership there, a married couple, Paul and Cindy.
Cindy took me to the hospital the day of the procedure. I recall a hospital staff member, a woman, hollering at me. It seems she was only a few inches from my face with raised voice letting me know in no uncertain terms how irresponsible I was. I just sat there, in shame. At some point Cindy firmly told the woman to stop, that I felt bad enough without her rubbing it in.
I learned decades later that Luke's counsel from Paul had been something like, "What's wrong with you that you can't keep your hands off of her? Are you possessed or something?" Luke was only 19. Paul was probably in his mid to late 20s. He was only doing as he had been taught; we all were, figuring it out along the way and endeavoring to obey.
I was prepped and rolled into the procedure room. The staff had on masks. A small pipe or tube was inserted into my vagina; it seems like it was stainless steel, but maybe it was plastic. The life was sucked out of me, like a vacuum cleaner at work in a duct system. Afterward I was rolled into a ward with about 15 or so other young women. Our beds were side by side with curtains between them, the head of each bed against the wall. I guess it was a recovery type room. It felt sterile, cold, and institutional.
At some point that day I went back to Cindy and Paul's house. I bled a lot and mainly stayed in the guest bedroom during recovery. They were kind but I didn't want to bother them, to be a nuisance. I felt dirty. I felt alone. I cried a lot. I was thankful to have a nice place to stay to privately and secretly eradicate this error I had committed.
I had to call my mother to pay for the procedure. She didn't have much to say, other than she'd take care of the bill. We didn't discuss the abortion then or later. That was fine with me. I wanted to erase it, blot it out, forget it.
I think I was gone for about 4 days from my WOW family. As far as I know only Luke knew why I was gone, and he didn't even know that much. We didn't discuss it, that I recall. Since I was in leadership training as apprentice Corps and going to some leader's home, I figured my WOW family and Branch brothers and sisters assumed I had leadership stuff to do. I'm not sure what I or the WOW Branch leader told folks. Of course Drew, the WOW Branch leader, knew. Drew was protective of me, like I was his little sister.
I returned to my WOW family like nothing unusual had happened. I was there to move the Word. My absence wasn't discussed. I don't think I ever discussed my error with anyone; it was erased.
Luke and I continued living in the same house as WOW brother and sister, still madly in love with one another, unable to keep our hands off each other, and trying to be our best for God. Leadership didn't reassign him to a different family until there was a need elsewhere for the outreach of the Word; it seems that was sometime around Christmas. He was moved to another WOW family when someone left the WOW field; same city, same WOW Branch, different house.
We must have been more careful until the next August and beyond; I didn't get pregnant again.
Besides, the life that was sucked from my womb was just an appendage, no different really than having a splinter extracted.
October 21, 2009
Ink Not Dried - more thoughts on memoir
I recently read on one of Marta Szabo's blogs:
"This blog is a gallery where I hang my latest pieces of writing, the paint still drying."
I like that analogy.
It brought to mind another blog I visit entitled "Sending Pages Out to Dry." It also brought to mind one of my signature lines, "Is there ever a final draft?"
When I first began to discover myself after leaving The Way, and more so as I reached beyond the cultic/all-or-nothing/black-white mindset, I wrote poetry. I joined an online forum to exchange with other poets from around the world. I gained some confidence in my ability to communicate; in putting myself out there. It was liberating, yet also scary. I didn't consider myself a poet.
This past year, 2009, I stumbled across memoir. I have a new love, that of writing memoir. I think I'm learning that as I write, as I recreate scenes, I can paradoxically be in the scene and out of the scene at the same time. It's as if I'm in a play and watching it as well. But it's not a play; it's life. Yet, even though I am continuing this path of memoir, I don't consider myself a writer. Perhaps that will change as life goes on.
Poetry has many layers. The author may have an idea in mind, or an incident. The reader can interpret what the author wrote as the reader sees fit to suit the reader's mind, intellect, heart, life. That is poetry, at least a small corner of it; similar to memoir, to paintings, portraits, melodies - art.
Memoir is like a reservoir of pictures, still life and moving. I'm by no means a reservoir expert, but what comes to mind are nature's lakes with rocks and sand and layers of life. An entire universe within itself, the depths of which are hidden until one decides to dive. That is memoir, at least a snippet of it; similar to poetry, to sculptures, forms, landscapes - art.
Hmm, interesting. Today as I was hiking and looking over the Shenandoah Mountains, I thought of the ocean wondering how long it would take for the trees and vegetation of the mountain to change if it were covered with sea depths.
Splash.....
*************************************
Click here for more thoughts on memoir: I: "Journey through Memoir - Introduction" & III: "Do You Type with Eyes Closed?"
Click here for memoir index.
*********************************
"This blog is a gallery where I hang my latest pieces of writing, the paint still drying."
I like that analogy.
It brought to mind another blog I visit entitled "Sending Pages Out to Dry." It also brought to mind one of my signature lines, "Is there ever a final draft?"
When I first began to discover myself after leaving The Way, and more so as I reached beyond the cultic/all-or-nothing/black-white mindset, I wrote poetry. I joined an online forum to exchange with other poets from around the world. I gained some confidence in my ability to communicate; in putting myself out there. It was liberating, yet also scary. I didn't consider myself a poet.
This past year, 2009, I stumbled across memoir. I have a new love, that of writing memoir. I think I'm learning that as I write, as I recreate scenes, I can paradoxically be in the scene and out of the scene at the same time. It's as if I'm in a play and watching it as well. But it's not a play; it's life. Yet, even though I am continuing this path of memoir, I don't consider myself a writer. Perhaps that will change as life goes on.
Poetry has many layers. The author may have an idea in mind, or an incident. The reader can interpret what the author wrote as the reader sees fit to suit the reader's mind, intellect, heart, life. That is poetry, at least a small corner of it; similar to memoir, to paintings, portraits, melodies - art.
Memoir is like a reservoir of pictures, still life and moving. I'm by no means a reservoir expert, but what comes to mind are nature's lakes with rocks and sand and layers of life. An entire universe within itself, the depths of which are hidden until one decides to dive. That is memoir, at least a snippet of it; similar to poetry, to sculptures, forms, landscapes - art.
Hmm, interesting. Today as I was hiking and looking over the Shenandoah Mountains, I thought of the ocean wondering how long it would take for the trees and vegetation of the mountain to change if it were covered with sea depths.
Splash.....
*************************************
Click here for more thoughts on memoir: I: "Journey through Memoir - Introduction" & III: "Do You Type with Eyes Closed?"
Click here for memoir index.
*********************************
October 13, 2009
Seven-week Witness
non-subject: "struggling"
**********************************
At some point I must get the events of the past seven weeks out of my head and onto the paper. I have written some of it, not all the writing has come forth in what I think of as "memoir-style." Maybe someday my thoughts regarding "memoir-style" will broaden.
In what writing styles have I penned some of these past seven-week events, this seven-week saga, this seven-week witness? Memoir, journaling, lists, thought records. All have been for me to try to understand, to sort, to delineate, to heal, to express, to create, to know myself.
For seven weeks, I've been honored by the presence of a soul so very deep, so very tender, so very desirous of understanding, so very aware of nuances in speech and body, so very intelligent; yet so deeply hurt, so much grief, so much suppressed pain, so much injury, so much courage, so much resourcefulness to survive a tumultuous inner and outer world where only the brave dare enter. I hope the future brings a great joy of realization and wholeness to that soul; a growing into an adulthood that never loses the ability to play.
Yes, it has been a "seven-week witness." Not only of another, but also of myself.
Yes, to know myself. Whether others understand my need to write is beside any point of writing whatsoever. Whether any other human eyes scan my scratchings, scribblings, typos, obscene or decent phrases is nihil ad rem. I write for me. Some call that selfish; so be it, at least for now.
I struggle, because I desire to write of good times with my family of origin, my family now, my days of maturing, the years of growing into new ages. I refer to my ever growing years above 50 as "new age," not "old age." I don't mean new age in the sense of the New Age Movement with its nonsensically-spiritual, garbley-gooked, nebulously-laced, nothingness speak. But rather "new age" in the sense that with each year I gain a number, I enter a new age. A new age of regeneration to explore unexplored worlds.
What usually comes forth from my keyboard are not the so-called "good times." "Good times" seems to me such a trite phrase at the moment. It doesn't embrace the fullness of life. For me life isn't "good" and "bad," "positive" and "negative." So what is it? Bood and gad? Negposevity? Posnegivety? I like the third one: posnegivety. Interesting that the work "give" stands out in "posnegivety." And "pose" is there too, if the letters are scrambled a bit.
I must write of the "seven-week witness."
I will. And of the struggle last night to see Rhia off on the bus, that bus with the big Greyhound racing forward to what lies ahead.
********************************************
**********************************
At some point I must get the events of the past seven weeks out of my head and onto the paper. I have written some of it, not all the writing has come forth in what I think of as "memoir-style." Maybe someday my thoughts regarding "memoir-style" will broaden.
In what writing styles have I penned some of these past seven-week events, this seven-week saga, this seven-week witness? Memoir, journaling, lists, thought records. All have been for me to try to understand, to sort, to delineate, to heal, to express, to create, to know myself.
For seven weeks, I've been honored by the presence of a soul so very deep, so very tender, so very desirous of understanding, so very aware of nuances in speech and body, so very intelligent; yet so deeply hurt, so much grief, so much suppressed pain, so much injury, so much courage, so much resourcefulness to survive a tumultuous inner and outer world where only the brave dare enter. I hope the future brings a great joy of realization and wholeness to that soul; a growing into an adulthood that never loses the ability to play.
Yes, it has been a "seven-week witness." Not only of another, but also of myself.
Yes, to know myself. Whether others understand my need to write is beside any point of writing whatsoever. Whether any other human eyes scan my scratchings, scribblings, typos, obscene or decent phrases is nihil ad rem. I write for me. Some call that selfish; so be it, at least for now.
I struggle, because I desire to write of good times with my family of origin, my family now, my days of maturing, the years of growing into new ages. I refer to my ever growing years above 50 as "new age," not "old age." I don't mean new age in the sense of the New Age Movement with its nonsensically-spiritual, garbley-gooked, nebulously-laced, nothingness speak. But rather "new age" in the sense that with each year I gain a number, I enter a new age. A new age of regeneration to explore unexplored worlds.
What usually comes forth from my keyboard are not the so-called "good times." "Good times" seems to me such a trite phrase at the moment. It doesn't embrace the fullness of life. For me life isn't "good" and "bad," "positive" and "negative." So what is it? Bood and gad? Negposevity? Posnegivety? I like the third one: posnegivety. Interesting that the work "give" stands out in "posnegivety." And "pose" is there too, if the letters are scrambled a bit.
I must write of the "seven-week witness."
I will. And of the struggle last night to see Rhia off on the bus, that bus with the big Greyhound racing forward to what lies ahead.
********************************************
October 7, 2009
Slates and Walls
Trust. Protectors. Thought police. Judgmentalism. Authoritarians. Honesty. Mothers. Originators. Relationships. Humanity.
A mouthful of words. A body-full of thoughts, emotions, observations, questions.
When one touts that they are honest; are they? When one touts they know what is best for another, do they? When one boasts these things, yet they themselves state that people can't be trusted; can the touter be trusted?
These kinds of questions have been running through my head for a couple weeks.
I read on a blog this morning where the author states that honesty their "gig." Because of my (and at least one other person's) past interactions with the author, I question their claim. I currently choose not to interact with the person. Maybe some day that will change; time will tell. That said, I recognize that they also are part of the two-legged race.
In contrast, I had a conversation this afternoon with a good friend, Dawson, who is as honest a person as I know; yet, he doesn't tout his honesty nor give unsolicited advice nor act as thought patrol or protector nor is judgmental (in the self-righteous sense) of others. I trust Dawson, not to be perfect or without error, but rather to take me as I am understanding that I too am human; part of this complex species.
As he and I were conversing on the phone I looked over at my bookshelf. There were three books Dawson had sent me over a year ago, three books I want to read but haven't gotten to yet. Until today. It's time for another academic book; I've mainly been reading memoir the past few months.
The Blank Slate by Steven Pinker. I've only read the Preface so far. Yet am excited to dig further. It will take me some time to get through the book. I am currently reading a couple other memoirs as well.
The Preface substantiated some of my thoughts as of late, thoughts I don't know if I can yet or will be able to articulate, but that relate to what I have stated in this blog. The last sentence in the Preface section (before the acknowledgments) states, regarding people for whom the book is for:
And it is for those who recognize that the sciences of mind, brain, genes and evolution are permanently changing our view of ourselves and wonder whether the values we hold precious will wither, survive, or (as I will argue) be enhanced.
It is the last few words that cause a surge in my soul, that inspires, that motivates, that whets my appetite, that causes my heart to soar. Hope. Wonderful, magical hope. "I want to believe in humanity," to quote Carole King.
I look forward to the 'argument' Pinker will put forth in The Blank Slate.
***********************************************************
What is one of the commonalities I can articulate regarding the people/relationships in my life that possess some of the characteristics mentioned above? Self-righteousness. I too have played the role at times, and may again....but hopefully not as often.
Another Brick in the Wall
A mouthful of words. A body-full of thoughts, emotions, observations, questions.
When one touts that they are honest; are they? When one touts they know what is best for another, do they? When one boasts these things, yet they themselves state that people can't be trusted; can the touter be trusted?
These kinds of questions have been running through my head for a couple weeks.
I read on a blog this morning where the author states that honesty their "gig." Because of my (and at least one other person's) past interactions with the author, I question their claim. I currently choose not to interact with the person. Maybe some day that will change; time will tell. That said, I recognize that they also are part of the two-legged race.
In contrast, I had a conversation this afternoon with a good friend, Dawson, who is as honest a person as I know; yet, he doesn't tout his honesty nor give unsolicited advice nor act as thought patrol or protector nor is judgmental (in the self-righteous sense) of others. I trust Dawson, not to be perfect or without error, but rather to take me as I am understanding that I too am human; part of this complex species.
As he and I were conversing on the phone I looked over at my bookshelf. There were three books Dawson had sent me over a year ago, three books I want to read but haven't gotten to yet. Until today. It's time for another academic book; I've mainly been reading memoir the past few months.
The Blank Slate by Steven Pinker. I've only read the Preface so far. Yet am excited to dig further. It will take me some time to get through the book. I am currently reading a couple other memoirs as well.
The Preface substantiated some of my thoughts as of late, thoughts I don't know if I can yet or will be able to articulate, but that relate to what I have stated in this blog. The last sentence in the Preface section (before the acknowledgments) states, regarding people for whom the book is for:
And it is for those who recognize that the sciences of mind, brain, genes and evolution are permanently changing our view of ourselves and wonder whether the values we hold precious will wither, survive, or (as I will argue) be enhanced.
It is the last few words that cause a surge in my soul, that inspires, that motivates, that whets my appetite, that causes my heart to soar. Hope. Wonderful, magical hope. "I want to believe in humanity," to quote Carole King.
I look forward to the 'argument' Pinker will put forth in The Blank Slate.
***********************************************************
What is one of the commonalities I can articulate regarding the people/relationships in my life that possess some of the characteristics mentioned above? Self-righteousness. I too have played the role at times, and may again....but hopefully not as often.
Another Brick in the Wall
October 3, 2009
New York Log III: Time Travel
******************************************
Click here to read an introduction to memoir.
non-subject: "awakening"
******************************************
It was finally Friday, August 28, time to head north from New Paltz, NY, to the town of Woodstock. The Authentic Writing Workshop was starting that evening at Fred and Marta's.
The workshop was my reason for coming to NY. Yet, even the trip up and the time in New Paltz and the adventures at Bethel Woods on what was once Yasger's Farm had been cleansing, poignantly real, substantiating, revealing, grounding. I had experienced some dissociation and flashbacks on the drive up from North Carolina to New York. I was glad I'd made the trip alone, allowing me the freedom to experience and feel and process. "Process," such an overused word these days.
Prior to the journey, I had told my counselor that this NY trip was like a pilgrimage. Little did I know at the time how true and clear and distinct that word pilgrimage would ring. Though I had begun my journey only 5 days previously, I had time traveled some 30 years into the past, at the same time being very present in the now.
Before departing New Paltz for Woodstock, I walked through the hostel searching for Lito, the host. I wanted to tell him thank you and good bye. I ventured upstairs, where I had not previously toured. The walls were brightly painted in golds and purples and prism hues. There were scenes and pictures painted on the walls. They were magical and mystical; mermaids and volcanoes, various murals. I wish I had written about them then so I could recall the details. The only picture I recall in detail is a life-size comical caricature on a downstairs door. It depicted a balding man in boxers and a wife-beater tee with a beer gut; a talk bubble above him stating something like, "Keep the door closed! I don't work all day just to pay for air conditioning."
I sallied out to the front porch. Ahh, the front porch with its tables and chairs and glider and the vinyl bench seat from some old vehicle. The bench seat, that brought back memories of when I lived with Frank in the North Carolina foothills when I was 17. Frank was 24 or 25 and we were going to get married. I lived with him for around a year in that little cabin with no electric heat or indoor plumbing. In that summer of 1976 I bathed in the tin tub outside. There was a long dirt drive from the dirt road up to the cabin. In between the cabin and dirt road were a couple lines of trees; a fallow field overgrown with wild weeds, wild flowers, and a bit of tended marijuana; and a staggered row of low brush. It was perfect privacy for a sun-warmed bath in a tin tub, slightly heated with rose hip tea that I brewed using the wood or camp stove. I had plenty of warning of any approaching vehicles since the driveway was so long. We would get visitors regularly, but some had seen me nude anyway so I wasn't too concerned. Plus I kept a towel draped over a good-size rock right outside the tub. All that memory, plus more, from that old vinyl bench car seat on the porch of a New York hostel.
Memories from 1976 through 1982 floated to my awareness during this 4-night stay in 2009 in this international dorm setting, this artistic hostel, this multiculatural college town of New Paltz, the landscapes and backroads to and from Bethel Woods, the Allman Brothers live at Yasger's old farm place, meeting Roger and his wife and learning he had been a Mormon Bishop and left the org some 15 years ago. No wonder he took such an interest in my poetry and writing.
Lito wasn't on the porch, but Rhia was sitting there talking on her cell phone. I had met Rhia my first night, Monday, at the hostel. We had talked a bit, not in-depth. Yet in-depth enough for a first-time meeting around a dining room table in a hostel. She had said to me that first night, "I see a sparkle about you, above your head," making a twinkling motion with her fingers above her head to describe what she sensed or saw. I noted it at the time as a New Age type statement and true for her. She was kind, observant, intelligent, warm, and a good conversationalist. I had given Rhia some Arnica Thursday night, or maybe it was Wednesday night. She was in some pain and mentioned that she wished she had some Arnica. "I have some in my car," I responded. At the time her eyes lit up, "You do?" I gladly shared the remedy with her.
So there she sat on the porch. I waved at her through the screened door and she motioned for me to come out. She was on the phone so couldn't talk to me at that moment. She handed me a chocolate bar, dark chocolate. I was still looking for Lito, so motioned to her that I'd be right back.
After one last round for Lito, without success, I went back to the porch. I was rather anxious to get on the road to get to Woodstock; I wanted to see a bit of the town before the evening workshop began. Yet I wanted to tell Rhia thank you and say bye to her. She got off the phone shortly after I returned to the porch.
"I wanted to give you something," she stated kindly.
"Thank you!" I responded. "I'd like to share it with you. Do you want some?"
She graciously accepted and we began to talk in between chocolate chews. One of the subjects was about dreams, the kind of dreams one has when asleep. I shared one of my dreams from years ago, about a gentle giant who was a gardener. I'd name him John. He was significant for me because at the time of the dream I was involved in a religious group and was going through some changes.
"What group?" Rhia asked wrapped with attentiveness to my every word as I was sharing about the significance of what had become part of me, my dream-friend the Gentle Giant John the Gardener.
"It was a fundamentalist Bible group. I was involved for 28 years. I exited the group in latter 2005." I don't recall if I told her the name of it was The Way. "It's the reason I've come to New York for the writing workshop. I met one of the workshop facilitators on Twitter. She wrote a book, 'The Guru Looked Good,' about her involvement with an ashram, one not far from here in South Fallsburg."
Rhia's eyes got big and her mouth opened slightly, a small jaw drop.
"Gurumayi," she responded with surprise, slightly questioning, somewhat mystically; perhaps with a hint of timidness and a hint of hope.
"Yes!" I responded.
"My ashram. My guru." There was a whisper in her voice, almost childlike.
She sat in silence, somewhat stunned. Then her story began to trickle from her entire being as she formed words endeavoring to convey the tip of a mammoth volcano stirring beneath the surface.
After almost two hours of exchange and some tears she asked, "Do you believe me?"
"Yes," I responded. "Yes, I believe you."
My pilgrimage had just taken a turn into territory I never expected.
****************************************************************
Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index)
Here for New York Log I
Here for New York Log II
Here for Each Voice Matters
****************************************************************
Click here to read an introduction to memoir.
non-subject: "awakening"
******************************************
It was finally Friday, August 28, time to head north from New Paltz, NY, to the town of Woodstock. The Authentic Writing Workshop was starting that evening at Fred and Marta's.
The workshop was my reason for coming to NY. Yet, even the trip up and the time in New Paltz and the adventures at Bethel Woods on what was once Yasger's Farm had been cleansing, poignantly real, substantiating, revealing, grounding. I had experienced some dissociation and flashbacks on the drive up from North Carolina to New York. I was glad I'd made the trip alone, allowing me the freedom to experience and feel and process. "Process," such an overused word these days.
Prior to the journey, I had told my counselor that this NY trip was like a pilgrimage. Little did I know at the time how true and clear and distinct that word pilgrimage would ring. Though I had begun my journey only 5 days previously, I had time traveled some 30 years into the past, at the same time being very present in the now.
Before departing New Paltz for Woodstock, I walked through the hostel searching for Lito, the host. I wanted to tell him thank you and good bye. I ventured upstairs, where I had not previously toured. The walls were brightly painted in golds and purples and prism hues. There were scenes and pictures painted on the walls. They were magical and mystical; mermaids and volcanoes, various murals. I wish I had written about them then so I could recall the details. The only picture I recall in detail is a life-size comical caricature on a downstairs door. It depicted a balding man in boxers and a wife-beater tee with a beer gut; a talk bubble above him stating something like, "Keep the door closed! I don't work all day just to pay for air conditioning."
I sallied out to the front porch. Ahh, the front porch with its tables and chairs and glider and the vinyl bench seat from some old vehicle. The bench seat, that brought back memories of when I lived with Frank in the North Carolina foothills when I was 17. Frank was 24 or 25 and we were going to get married. I lived with him for around a year in that little cabin with no electric heat or indoor plumbing. In that summer of 1976 I bathed in the tin tub outside. There was a long dirt drive from the dirt road up to the cabin. In between the cabin and dirt road were a couple lines of trees; a fallow field overgrown with wild weeds, wild flowers, and a bit of tended marijuana; and a staggered row of low brush. It was perfect privacy for a sun-warmed bath in a tin tub, slightly heated with rose hip tea that I brewed using the wood or camp stove. I had plenty of warning of any approaching vehicles since the driveway was so long. We would get visitors regularly, but some had seen me nude anyway so I wasn't too concerned. Plus I kept a towel draped over a good-size rock right outside the tub. All that memory, plus more, from that old vinyl bench car seat on the porch of a New York hostel.
Memories from 1976 through 1982 floated to my awareness during this 4-night stay in 2009 in this international dorm setting, this artistic hostel, this multiculatural college town of New Paltz, the landscapes and backroads to and from Bethel Woods, the Allman Brothers live at Yasger's old farm place, meeting Roger and his wife and learning he had been a Mormon Bishop and left the org some 15 years ago. No wonder he took such an interest in my poetry and writing.
Lito wasn't on the porch, but Rhia was sitting there talking on her cell phone. I had met Rhia my first night, Monday, at the hostel. We had talked a bit, not in-depth. Yet in-depth enough for a first-time meeting around a dining room table in a hostel. She had said to me that first night, "I see a sparkle about you, above your head," making a twinkling motion with her fingers above her head to describe what she sensed or saw. I noted it at the time as a New Age type statement and true for her. She was kind, observant, intelligent, warm, and a good conversationalist. I had given Rhia some Arnica Thursday night, or maybe it was Wednesday night. She was in some pain and mentioned that she wished she had some Arnica. "I have some in my car," I responded. At the time her eyes lit up, "You do?" I gladly shared the remedy with her.
So there she sat on the porch. I waved at her through the screened door and she motioned for me to come out. She was on the phone so couldn't talk to me at that moment. She handed me a chocolate bar, dark chocolate. I was still looking for Lito, so motioned to her that I'd be right back.
After one last round for Lito, without success, I went back to the porch. I was rather anxious to get on the road to get to Woodstock; I wanted to see a bit of the town before the evening workshop began. Yet I wanted to tell Rhia thank you and say bye to her. She got off the phone shortly after I returned to the porch.
"I wanted to give you something," she stated kindly.
"Thank you!" I responded. "I'd like to share it with you. Do you want some?"
She graciously accepted and we began to talk in between chocolate chews. One of the subjects was about dreams, the kind of dreams one has when asleep. I shared one of my dreams from years ago, about a gentle giant who was a gardener. I'd name him John. He was significant for me because at the time of the dream I was involved in a religious group and was going through some changes.
"What group?" Rhia asked wrapped with attentiveness to my every word as I was sharing about the significance of what had become part of me, my dream-friend the Gentle Giant John the Gardener.
"It was a fundamentalist Bible group. I was involved for 28 years. I exited the group in latter 2005." I don't recall if I told her the name of it was The Way. "It's the reason I've come to New York for the writing workshop. I met one of the workshop facilitators on Twitter. She wrote a book, 'The Guru Looked Good,' about her involvement with an ashram, one not far from here in South Fallsburg."
Rhia's eyes got big and her mouth opened slightly, a small jaw drop.
"Gurumayi," she responded with surprise, slightly questioning, somewhat mystically; perhaps with a hint of timidness and a hint of hope.
"Yes!" I responded.
"My ashram. My guru." There was a whisper in her voice, almost childlike.
She sat in silence, somewhat stunned. Then her story began to trickle from her entire being as she formed words endeavoring to convey the tip of a mammoth volcano stirring beneath the surface.
After almost two hours of exchange and some tears she asked, "Do you believe me?"
"Yes," I responded. "Yes, I believe you."
My pilgrimage had just taken a turn into territory I never expected.
****************************************************************
Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index)
Here for New York Log I
Here for New York Log II
Here for Each Voice Matters
****************************************************************
October 1, 2009
Up The Way Tree
****
The following piece is part one of two.
Click here for part two: Extirpation
****
God how I loved Luke.
I was 19. He was 18 when we met that summer of 1978.
We met at the Statewide Way Summer Outreach Program. I was assigned to the city of Fayetteville. I don't recall where Luke was assigned. It was at the end of the program in July, at the Certificate of Completion Ceremony, when Luke and I really connected. We both stayed the night in someone's home in the eastern part of the state. Both of us were going out as Word Over the World Ambassadors (WOW) in August, immediately following the Rock of Ages Festival.
The Rock was held every August. For about one week believers from around the world would gather in New Knoxville, Ohio, USA, at The Way Headquarters. So thrilling, so important, so spiritually high. This wasn't religion. It was God's family, His household. We were free in Christ. This was my first Rock of Ages, and I was going WOW.
How many people were at the Rock in '78? Fifteen thousand maybe? The Way boasted about having the largest big-top tent in the world. I guess it was true. That tent could seat a multitude in the 70's and 80s' as it towered over the gigantic tarmac or whatever those big paved-type areas are called. Hundreds, probably thousands, of folding chairs were set up by volunteers on the smooth, hard pavement under the blue-and-white striped giant canopy.
The chair set-up crew would "string the chairs," a tedious but important job. A straight-stretched string was used to make sure each chair was in line. One person held the string on the ground at one end of the row with another person at the other end of the row, while the two or three middle-of-the-row volunteers scooted the front legs of the chair to meet the straight-stretched string. Then the chairs were eyed, to make sure all was decent and in order. Decent and in order kept out confusion. Confusion could attract devil spirits, distract the mind of the receiver and the spirit of the teacher. Dr. Wierwille, the Teacher, was the man of God for the world; he wasn't perfect, but he heard God's voice clearly. Father would tell him when things weren't right, or if peoples' hearts were unthankful. It could distract from his evening teaching. Keeping the physicals in proper arrangement was a priority so that the spiritual nourishment would be accurate and we could receive the greatness of the Word.
~*~
The WOW Ambassador commitment was for one year, wherever The Ministry sent you. Like summer outreach, WOWs didn't know where they would be assigned until a day or so before they headed out to their designated cities. Some people decided at the Rock to go WOW. I had decided months earlier back in February. Dr. Wierwille had signed me up on stage in front of 100s, if not 1000s, of people at a Heartbeat Festival in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He had called me up on stage at the end of his teaching. Me and him, and the sea of onlookers.
After I signed the card, I stayed on stage with him as he heralded, "Who else wants to go W - O - W!?!" The call bellowed from him with that charismatic smile and love of God in his heart. He wasn't showy or pompous, but rather glowed with the excitement of a child receiving a much prayed for Christmas gift. Doctor believed in this cause, Word Over the World. It was God's cause, God's calling. To give every man, woman, and child the opportunity to say yes or no to God's rightly-divided Word as it hadn't been known since the first century. This was God's Ministry.
There I was at that Heartbeat Festival in February, 1978, on stage with Dr. Wierwille, handing out WOW Ambassador sign-up cards to people who came forward. I had to bend down to hand them cards; the stage was elevated. I was wearing my Holly Hobby dress, as I called it. A one-piece frock-type dress with a ruffle at the bottom of the dress that landed midway between my knees and ankles. I think I was wearing tights and some sort of laced dress shoes. It was chilly in February. Little 18-year old me, on stage with the man of God and part of his security team with their suits and stoic stances, handing out the blue over-sized index-type Word Over the World Ambassador Registration cards. Dr. Wierwille didn't have that stoic look; he was alive with life and the Word of God. So was the security team, I was sure. It's just they had to stay spiritually aware, like the Secret Service around the President of the United States.
~*~
And now here I was, August, 1978, 19-years old, at the Rock of Ages anticipating my WOW assignment along with other saints who were also going out WOW. Were there 1000 of us heading out to move the Word? I don't recall the exact number.
Luke and I sat together through WOW training knowing we wouldn't see each other for a year due to our commitments. We were in love at that point but had been 'behaving' ourselves sexually; we wanted to keep God first. Our WOW commitments were vows to God, to serve Him for that year, to put Him first. My WOW year was also my Apprenticeship Way Corps year. I would be going in-residence into The Way Corps at The Way College of Emporia in Kansas the following September, after my WOW commitment.
Electricity was in the air the night of the assignments. There were hoots and hollers as the WOWs discovered their destinations and who they would be assigned with. The saints not going WOW, thousands of them, were also there under or around the Big Top to celebrate the WOW commissioning.
When my section was announced from the Big Top stage, I opened my sealed envelope.
I was headed to a state in the mid-west! My heart thrilled! I had told God I wanted to go where it was cold.
I was the WOW Ambassador Family Coordinator for my household. There were 4 of us: myself, Mary, Lenn, and Luke. Luke!? Luke!? How could that be? So many were going out WOW, how could he and I end up in the same family? But there was his name. I was excited momentarily, and then reality hit.
Luke and I couldn't be WOWs together, living in the same house. We were in love, teenage hormones raging. How could we focus on our spiritual growth and God? This couldn't be. I needed to find whoever the leadership was that would be overseeing our WOW branch for the year. His name was Drew; he was Interim Way Corps in his third-year of the four-year Way Corps Program.
I spoke with Drew, sharing that Luke and I couldn't be together; we were in love. To be in the same house together, well, it needed to be changed. Drew took it up The Way Tree, the leadership hierarchy for The Way International.
They would understand; the leadership watched out for the individual.
I prayed.
The decision came back down the Way Tree. The assignment stood; God had worked in leadership at the time of the WOW assignments. The WOW family placements were divinely inspired; God's will.
Luke and I were to stay together, in the same family, in the same house, sharing the same bathroom.
The following piece is part one of two.
Click here for part two: Extirpation
****
God how I loved Luke.
I was 19. He was 18 when we met that summer of 1978.
We met at the Statewide Way Summer Outreach Program. I was assigned to the city of Fayetteville. I don't recall where Luke was assigned. It was at the end of the program in July, at the Certificate of Completion Ceremony, when Luke and I really connected. We both stayed the night in someone's home in the eastern part of the state. Both of us were going out as Word Over the World Ambassadors (WOW) in August, immediately following the Rock of Ages Festival.
The Rock was held every August. For about one week believers from around the world would gather in New Knoxville, Ohio, USA, at The Way Headquarters. So thrilling, so important, so spiritually high. This wasn't religion. It was God's family, His household. We were free in Christ. This was my first Rock of Ages, and I was going WOW.
How many people were at the Rock in '78? Fifteen thousand maybe? The Way boasted about having the largest big-top tent in the world. I guess it was true. That tent could seat a multitude in the 70's and 80s' as it towered over the gigantic tarmac or whatever those big paved-type areas are called. Hundreds, probably thousands, of folding chairs were set up by volunteers on the smooth, hard pavement under the blue-and-white striped giant canopy.
The chair set-up crew would "string the chairs," a tedious but important job. A straight-stretched string was used to make sure each chair was in line. One person held the string on the ground at one end of the row with another person at the other end of the row, while the two or three middle-of-the-row volunteers scooted the front legs of the chair to meet the straight-stretched string. Then the chairs were eyed, to make sure all was decent and in order. Decent and in order kept out confusion. Confusion could attract devil spirits, distract the mind of the receiver and the spirit of the teacher. Dr. Wierwille, the Teacher, was the man of God for the world; he wasn't perfect, but he heard God's voice clearly. Father would tell him when things weren't right, or if peoples' hearts were unthankful. It could distract from his evening teaching. Keeping the physicals in proper arrangement was a priority so that the spiritual nourishment would be accurate and we could receive the greatness of the Word.
~*~
The WOW Ambassador commitment was for one year, wherever The Ministry sent you. Like summer outreach, WOWs didn't know where they would be assigned until a day or so before they headed out to their designated cities. Some people decided at the Rock to go WOW. I had decided months earlier back in February. Dr. Wierwille had signed me up on stage in front of 100s, if not 1000s, of people at a Heartbeat Festival in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He had called me up on stage at the end of his teaching. Me and him, and the sea of onlookers.
After I signed the card, I stayed on stage with him as he heralded, "Who else wants to go W - O - W!?!" The call bellowed from him with that charismatic smile and love of God in his heart. He wasn't showy or pompous, but rather glowed with the excitement of a child receiving a much prayed for Christmas gift. Doctor believed in this cause, Word Over the World. It was God's cause, God's calling. To give every man, woman, and child the opportunity to say yes or no to God's rightly-divided Word as it hadn't been known since the first century. This was God's Ministry.
There I was at that Heartbeat Festival in February, 1978, on stage with Dr. Wierwille, handing out WOW Ambassador sign-up cards to people who came forward. I had to bend down to hand them cards; the stage was elevated. I was wearing my Holly Hobby dress, as I called it. A one-piece frock-type dress with a ruffle at the bottom of the dress that landed midway between my knees and ankles. I think I was wearing tights and some sort of laced dress shoes. It was chilly in February. Little 18-year old me, on stage with the man of God and part of his security team with their suits and stoic stances, handing out the blue over-sized index-type Word Over the World Ambassador Registration cards. Dr. Wierwille didn't have that stoic look; he was alive with life and the Word of God. So was the security team, I was sure. It's just they had to stay spiritually aware, like the Secret Service around the President of the United States.
~*~
And now here I was, August, 1978, 19-years old, at the Rock of Ages anticipating my WOW assignment along with other saints who were also going out WOW. Were there 1000 of us heading out to move the Word? I don't recall the exact number.
Luke and I sat together through WOW training knowing we wouldn't see each other for a year due to our commitments. We were in love at that point but had been 'behaving' ourselves sexually; we wanted to keep God first. Our WOW commitments were vows to God, to serve Him for that year, to put Him first. My WOW year was also my Apprenticeship Way Corps year. I would be going in-residence into The Way Corps at The Way College of Emporia in Kansas the following September, after my WOW commitment.
Electricity was in the air the night of the assignments. There were hoots and hollers as the WOWs discovered their destinations and who they would be assigned with. The saints not going WOW, thousands of them, were also there under or around the Big Top to celebrate the WOW commissioning.
When my section was announced from the Big Top stage, I opened my sealed envelope.
I was headed to a state in the mid-west! My heart thrilled! I had told God I wanted to go where it was cold.
I was the WOW Ambassador Family Coordinator for my household. There were 4 of us: myself, Mary, Lenn, and Luke. Luke!? Luke!? How could that be? So many were going out WOW, how could he and I end up in the same family? But there was his name. I was excited momentarily, and then reality hit.
Luke and I couldn't be WOWs together, living in the same house. We were in love, teenage hormones raging. How could we focus on our spiritual growth and God? This couldn't be. I needed to find whoever the leadership was that would be overseeing our WOW branch for the year. His name was Drew; he was Interim Way Corps in his third-year of the four-year Way Corps Program.
I spoke with Drew, sharing that Luke and I couldn't be together; we were in love. To be in the same house together, well, it needed to be changed. Drew took it up The Way Tree, the leadership hierarchy for The Way International.
They would understand; the leadership watched out for the individual.
I prayed.
The decision came back down the Way Tree. The assignment stood; God had worked in leadership at the time of the WOW assignments. The WOW family placements were divinely inspired; God's will.
Luke and I were to stay together, in the same family, in the same house, sharing the same bathroom.